Enemies Closer
by Vixen Argentum
Summary: In a universe where people have the names of their greatest enemy and their greatest love on their body...what happens when the universe didn't exactly get the memo? Mayuri was born carrying the names of two enemies. With everything that he's ever learned about the universe, by now, it's really no surprise. Mayuri/Shutara AND Urahara/Mayuri Written for UraMayu week 2019


Welp. This is a Big Damn Project.

Yes. This is a dual enemy-soulmate AU.

No. I'm not going to tell you who the soulmates are. In fact, they're going to appear very much like enemies. They may even be one and the same! That's the beauty of this verse.

You're just going to have to wait and read what happens. You can send me all the comments you want. I may confirm some things or deny others. And honestly, I love talking about the different parts of how everyone is in this world, from the characters that I'm focused on to completely random details in the world.

Do I ship both pairs? Yes. Will this have both? Yes. Will one win out? No idea. Will neither end up being the case? Ohhhh man the angst. Will it be a poly ending? Well, that could be cool, but honestly…I'm still in the process of writing this thing…so we're all going to learn together.

Fuck, I may even write four different endings just so that you can choose whichever you were rooting for. But for real…for the sake of this story…just leave any gross, unneeded, bigoted or misguided judgement behind. This is fiction. It means nothing and validates nothing. I'm writing this because this is an idea that I found highly amusing, and thus am penning it. Just like the origin that every fic should have.

Hello everyone. I am Vix…and clearly, I am a sadomasochist. That said, sit back, and enjoy the show.

* * *

Everyone wears a name. Well…at least one.

Most people have two. Some have more. It's really hard to discern sometimes.

Traditionally it's a balance. Two deeply significant names. One of your greatest lover, and the other of your greatest enemy. But lives aren't static. People die. People change. Sometimes enemies are lovers. Sometimes lovers become enemies. Sometimes they were the same people all along. Not everybody fits this, of course. Sometimes, people are born with two names only to love them both, or to hate them both…but society tends to shun them. They are unbalanced. Most people cannot accept another way. But that's generally a superstition held by the lower classes. Much like being left-handed, with more education and more wealth, the stigmas fall away.

There's so much fiction and myth behind people who have two names, and only two names, never changing, never fading. These are the "true ones". One true love, and one great evil to fight. Both are life-long and enduring and touch the soul. Most people have had a change or two, but secretly, every small child who's ever fallen asleep to the soft words of a novel dreams of being a hero, and every parent hopes they'll be too.

Dyed deep in the skin, they're hard to alter by your own hand, or even a trained professional. In fact, truly, most people will never see the ones you bear. People hide their hearts no matter the reason. While people have deep hopes, they also harbor deep regrets. Sometimes your name is written on someone, but theirs isn't written on you. Which is better, to never love or to love unrequited? So much of the time, even among the very close, this information isn't shared. It's assumed to just be unspoken.

Culture is polite. There are legacies to hand down…so in the end things steeped in myth are squelched by reality. But that's the funny thing about dreams…they always persevere.

xXx

_**~3000 years ago, Soul Society, Equivalent Living World time unknown:**_

Shutara wipes the blood off her face. She'd stabbed down with her naginata after the man had fallen, and the arterial spray hit her. It's warm but it's freeing. Crimson eyes watch, deeply focused, seeing the life drain out of the eyes below her, snuffed like a candle.

There. It's happening again. She feels the name go from living to dead on her back. The scarification of an old one rarely ever takes much time. But gods does it itch and it's hard to get to where this one is placed.

She pulls the blade out of the body and sighs, wiping it clean on the grass and then leaning her full weight on the pole as she takes a deep breath. The sun is setting and if she doesn't get to her home base soon, it will be difficult to navigate her way through the thick copse. Finding a tree nearby, she scratches her back on the bark like a bear, her eyes nearly rolling back in relief as she feels the roughness on her back. She lets out a contented sigh.

By now, she has a care ritual for this. But, rather than tend to her normal proclivities, she heads back to the base where she and her soldiers are camped.

It's recent, but she's joined a band of warriors that aims to change the landscape of this world referred to as soul society. One that will organizes any and all people in these lands who are born with spiritual power and form a more cohesive government. The world she's grown up in has been torn by war as long as she's known it, but as an aristocrat with lots of inherited spiritual power, her family at least has always had the means to give her the training to defend herself and her own. Feral souls that didn't cross over correctly are an ever-present threat, and the old ways are no longer working, and thus in pursuit of a larger goal than what her family had in mind, she'd left, and now guides her own life.

She doesn't know the full plans, nor does she trust this merry band of thugs—herself included—that it's brought together. But she knows that if she is to have a hand in shaping this world, the shaping will happen here, with them. Gods help them all.

Her timing is good. The sun sets, and the campfires have been raised. She's generally never hungry after a kill, so she merely wanders through the rows of tents, instead of grabbing a little bit of what's left of the mess. She doesn't want to eat much anyway, not when she needs to have a small, lithe physique to do assassin's work. But that's something different entirely.

Soon things settle down. Soldiers go back to their tents and lay down for the night. She hides and waits, knowing that eventually the world will fall asleep without her. Finally, she crawls into the officer's tent that belongs to her, and it's just exactly as she thought it would be.

Her lover sleeps, curled up in blankets on the mat and she takes one last look at her. They'd had an intense night two days ago—the first time she'd ever shown her names to anyone outside of family caring for her as a child. After all, she'd left to fight her epic battle, and she'd wanted to let her know that it could be the last time she'd ever see Shutara again. She shared the two deeply inked names, placed square between her shoulder blades, framed like art between the points of bone. Shutara's not one of the "lucky ones" with two. She's had many crossed off in her line of work, but her heart fluttering, this was the first time that she knew the identity of both of them. Her lover, relieved, revealed Shutara's own name, scrawled in red script at the base of her neck, why she always wore it flowing despite being a fighter. Then, she knew that she was truly matched.

So now, in the dark of the night, she climbs beside her. Her love shifts as she stirs in her sleep and Shutara pulls her tightly to her, nose pressed into her free hair, taking in a warm breath, savoring it as she casts just one more glance at what signs her fate.

She closes her eyes, as she doesn't wish to watch. She knows it's hypocritical of her, but she'll never pretend it isn't.

One hand goes to her lover's mouth, and the other hand, holding a dagger, flashes forward and rips into the smooth pale flesh of her neck, bleeding out quickly as she holds the body down and waits for any last bits of movement and bloodflow over her hand to cease. It doesn't take long as the cut is deep, quick, and clean. And when she's done, she lets go, panting as reality sets in.

Sure enough, the other scar is burning. She's lost the other kind so many times but this is something unlike anything she's ever experienced.

It's wild unbridled emotion like she's rarely experienced ever before. Sadness and pain, nausea, a pounding headache. For the span of a moment, it's like death itself. But eventually it too fades, the longer she clutches at her chest and digs nails into her forearms. Her breathing steadies. Her heartbeat slows. It doesn't take long to clean things up and she wraps the body up in the sheets. She checks first outside the door, and the coast is clear. With the shovel she's stashed when she left that day, she buries her, replaced earth topped by wildflowers.

The myths are right. When names match, it's a magical encounter. But that life isn't for Shutara. The is destined for other things and she cannot have attachments. Not in this world. Perhaps not even in the next.

No. She needs to be free.

But like clockwork, she feels the new buds. This time, on the back of an arm. Odd, she's never gotten one there before. Luckily she's caring a bandage. As to not seem indecent, and she covers the newly forming words with the gauze. Neither name is one that she recognizes and she is nearly euphoric and simultaneously flooded with relief. She has time. Oh…it's been so long since she's had time. But in the immediate, as she glances down at the bandage, given her new circumstances and usual choice of fashion…she's going to need an entire wardrobe of new clothes. It's time to get to work. If anyone can sew what she needs and quickly, that would be her.

Now, when they call her a black widow, only _they_ will be the ones joking.

xXx

_**Roughly 500 ago,**__**Soul Society, Equivalent Living World time unknown:**_

Kisuke and Yoruichi crowd together in a corner. They're young. They're close. Practically children, though they're at the age where they can't recognize that fact.

There's no one who knows more secrets about Kisuke than she does. He's nervous, truly, but he thinks that things will be all right. He's done everything in his cautious nature to make sure that it will go well. By now, other people assume things, but not him. For as logical as he is, and the quick lighting mind he possesses, his heart will always have a depth that he has trouble defining.

He raises the leg of his hakama to reveal the name on his thigh. One is hers, and the other, he does not recognize. Looking up expectantly, he sees her forehead crease, as if she's not entirely sure what to say. But a guesture is a gesture, and it's significance is not to be discarded. It's only fair given what they've shared so far.

She lifts up her shirt just a bit, showing the outline of her ribs framed by the thick muscle gained from rigorous training. Then he understands.

Her names are different, and one of hers is the other one written on him. Something in him sickens and twists.

They part ways for the day. He doesn't go home.

In the dark of the night, he stares up at the stars, pondering the events of the day. Clearly fate had a cruel joke in store. But as romantic as his heart has always been, he's going to make a decision. He doesn't need the world to tell him that he's born for pain. He doesn't want to hate someone simply because of love.

He's so glad that she showed him. The first name was so right. What she did in return was the kindest thing she could have ever done, the reason why these things were usually taboo.

It's then that he makes the decision to ignore fate. While some people may need guiding lights, its not him. He's going to build his world anyway he sees fit, from the ground up, with his own hands, and that is that. He can still love any amount of people. And he refuses to hate blindly, or even truly hate at all. He rejects all of this, and there is nothing in this world that will hold him to it.

Then he's struck by an odd sensation.

His thigh is burning and itching like it's never done before and he scratches at it. He pulls up the cloth to look at the skin and he sees it raw and scabbing over. Curiously he watches as it forms, of course knowing that things can happen to names, but this is his first time ever encountering such a thing. A rarity for sure, but his mind is as it is, sharp and focused.

Both names no longer have ink—scars mark what they should have said, but now they're gone. Stormy eyes widen.

He feels strange pressure on the other leg now in a mirrored spot. He pulls up that leg too and sees two brand new names, names that he doesn't recognize, and he runs his finger over the shape.

His face grows solemn.

The universe is a mystery, but it can be harnessed. It is in his hands and he has the power. It is important that he wields it accordingly.

These names…these names, he keeps hidden

xXx

_**Roughly 175 ago, **__**Soul Society, Equivalent Living World time unknown:**_

This has been the worst day of Mayuri's life.

The whole process of going into the nest is degrading. Making sure that you're not bringing anything. Not allowing certain personal enhancements. Not to mention the way that everyone glares at you.

And he hadn't actually done anything! It was just a little bit of research. It hadn't even really proved anything, only hinted. But that's the problem with authority. They guide with a smile until it's time to take you down.

Nothing was unethical. Really. At least he didn't think so. There were precedents, even if it might have seemed unorthodox. But it's all lost now. All binned up in the evidence drawers of some goody-two-shoes whom the Central 46 is paying to organize, probably, if he were to guess.

Never mind now. He'll enjoy the quiet…so he's taking stock of just what he can do within the walls. He has a room all to himself in the back. The only one, he's told.

There's a small sink and he washes up for the night. The paint is scrubbed off and he's left with his bare face, neck, chest, hands, arms….and names.

Oh sure, he'd grown up with the tales. Everyone did. Love was for fools, and losing your head over an enemy was even more foolish.

Right on the inside of the forearm are where they sit. One—the crimson one, written in script, is one he wants to cut out, literally rip from his skin. She-devil. This was why he was here. But he pushes these thoughts out of his mind. He doesn't need to get angry right now. But he will spend time lost in his thoughts.

He's so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't quite notice the man who's approached him.

"Good evening, Mayuri Kurotsuchi-san! I would like to introduce myself! I will be your personal assistant throughout the duration of your esteemed stay! Kisuke Urahara at your service!"

Kisuke Urahara… _Urahara_…

He jumps as he hears the name, immediately becomes aware of his surroundings and pulls his sleeve down and folds his arms across his chest. Intense dislike burns through him. He despises people who are needlessly optimistic, and now today has gotten even worse than he ever thought possible.

He is truly one of the cursed. He is shunned for things he's done, and shunned by fate itself. He knew in his heart that this would be true, and to have it confirmed only makes him more smug. Two enemies. The world wasn't built to hold his magnitude.

Kisuke steps back, appearing apologetic, but Mayuri trusts no one. Not out in the world, and certainly not in here.

"Oh, I didn't realize you were indecent," he says, gesturing towards his arm.

Now rage cuts through Mayuri. How dare he.

"Don't worry," he says. "My family name is a common one. Consider me only your caretaker. Perhaps in time, I can be a confidant, but I understand if that never comes to pass."

Mayuri is seething now. Not only has he done something virtually forbidden and seen something incredibly personal—he has the gall to actually mention it instead of politely letting it drop. But again, anger right now will not get the best of him.

"I sincerely believe that any hopes you have are disposable," Mayuri says dryly. "I would appreciate it if in the future you kept a more professional attitude towards me. I'm sure it can't look good for a member of the punishment squad to be friendly with an inmate, else you get a cell of your own."

Kisuke beams. "You're kinder than I thought you'd be."

Mayuri looks at him, now more baffled than anything. But a puzzle is a puzzle, and he has a long, long, time.

But then Kisuke bows. "I just wanted to introduce myself, I'll be back in the morning with breakfast," he says. He thinks for a moment. "What do you like to read? I can bring you a paper with it if you like," he says. But he doesn't let Mayuri answer him. "I'll bring a few things. I look forward to knowing your preferences," he says, beaming. "Good night! Again, sorry for the intrusion."

And with that he blusters back down the hall.

Back alone in his cell, Mayuri pushes back down his sleeve and looks at the names. He's never truly been attracted to anyone, so it's really no surprise that he has two names like this. The red script is like blood, and he wouldn't have even had to have known what her name was to know that it belonged to her. He muses on the fact that perhaps the other one isn't this man, just someone perhaps related, with the same family name, but there's something about it that makes him doubt it. The font is unassuming, the color is drab. But it's clear and legible and even next to the other more commanding, decadent looking name, it appears to be its equal.

He doesn't like this. He doesn't like this at all.

The lights turn out. He sighs. It truly is a prison with a scheduled lights out. But right now, he doesn't want to think. And thus sleep is a welcome escape.


End file.
